There was no parking in Long Street. A SAPS patrol vehicle was already double-parked. Griessel pulled two wheels onto the broader pavement in front of the 'Travel Centre - Safari Tour Specialists' building beside the Cat & Moose, leapt out and, seeing the metre maid a hundred metres down the street, knew he was going to get a ticket. He muttered a curse, locked the car and jogged to the entrance of the building with its garish pink and orange colours. He sidestepped a young couple at the door conversing in a foreign language. The plump girl was behind the desk, in animated discussion with two uniformed men, one of the Caledon Square patrols. He ran up to them. She did not recognise him. He had to say: 'Benny Griessel, SAPS, I was here this morning. I hear you recognised one of the men.'

Her face changed in the blink of an eye from insecure receptionist to indignant witness. 'I've just been telling your colleagues, they just waltzed in here and said they were taking the luggage, can you believe it?'

'And you recognised one of them?'

'Tried to bluff their way past me, telling me they were her friends, do they think I am stupid?'

'But you knew one of them?'

'I don't know him, but I've seen him. So I just said: "Why don't you guys go talk to the SWAT team in there?" and they, like, stopped dead, and the next thing ...'

'A SWAT team?' Griessel asked.

'Yes, those buddies of yours guarding the luggage in there, and the next thing, they just waltzed right out again.'

'Miss, where have you seen this man?'

'Here ...' She waved her hand. Griessel wasn't sure what it was meant to include.

'In the hostel?'

'Well, he might have been in here, but I've seen him around, you know, he's in the industry, I'm sure.'

'What industry?'

'The tourist industry,' as though it went without saying.

'Look,' said Griessel, desperate that this not turn out to be a disappointment. 'A girl's life depends on the fact that we have to identify this guy, that you remember where you've seen him, so please ...'

'Really?' The responsibility came to rest on her, the indignation evaporated and enthusiasm took its place. 'Well, OK, look ... I, I know I've seen him at the cafe ...'

'What cafe?'

'The Long Street Cafe.'

'Does he work there?'

'No, he was, like, a customer ...' Deeply thoughtful, eyes squinting, the picture of concentration.

Griessel tried another tack. 'OK, can you describe him?'

'He's black. Tall. Handsome guy, you know, twenty-something ...' Then her face brightened. 'He's, like, skinny, you know, that look ... like all the guides, that's most likely where I saw him, in the cafe with the others ...'

But Benny Griessel wasn't listening to her because the elusive, slippery thing in his mind was rushing at him, he had to shut her up, he said: 'Wait, wait...'

'What?' she said, but he didn't hear her, his hand combed through his hair, and lingered on his neck. He scratched behind his ear, head bent, thoughts jumbled, he must get them in order. This morning ... Griessel looked to the right where they had talked to Oliver Sands this morning, that's what his head had been trying to tell him all fucking afternoon, it was that conversation. He tried to recall it, groping in the dark. Ollie had talked about the club, the girls in the club ...

No. Nothing. Wrong track.

He watched the girl behind the reception desk, looking disgruntled after being silenced. She'd said he's, like, skinny, you know, that look... like all the guides, that was the trigger. The guides. What had Sands said about that? Vusi had asked the questions this morning. He'd wanted to know who was with Sands and the girls at the club. Sands said a whole bunch. A group. And somewhere along the way he had said the guides were there too.

He whispered to himself. 'Jissis.' Because the thing was almost within his grasp, if he could only see it. He was unaware that he made a gesture of frustration, he was unaware of the two uniforms and the girl staring at him and looking vaguely concerned.

Griessel's phone began to ring. He ignored it. Not now. He tried to dredge up the words of that morning's conversation from his memory. He stood at the desk, put his palms flat on it and dipped his head. The girl stepped back half a pace.

Vusi Ndabeni, cell phone to his ear, listened to Griessel's number ringing while he watched Jeremy Oerson hurry out of the Metro building and go to his car.

'Answer me, Benny,' lie said and started to walk quickly towards his own car. Oerson climbed into a Nissan Sentra with the city police badge on the door.

The phone continued to ring.

'Please, Benny,' but the call diverted to Griessel's voice mail just as Vusi got his car unlocked and jumped in.

'Are you all right?' the Cat & Moose girl asked Griessel.

One of the uniforms realised what was going on and hushed her with a finger to his lips.

Benny stood still. He, Vusi and Oliver Sands. At the table. Sands telling them they came on the tour through Africa. They talked about last night. The club. The girls. The drink. Who was with them, Vusi had asked. A whole bunch. Do you know the names? Vusi had his notebook ready and Sands said ...

The answer came like a hammer blow. It made Griessel's body shudder. 'Fuck,' he said in triumph, loudly, startling the others. Oliver Sands had given them the names, the funny names, the funny pronunciation, that was the spectre that had been running through his head the whole goddamn afternoon, one name, he heard it now in Ollie's voice: Jason Dicklurk. Dicklurk. This morning Griessel had thought to himself, what a fucking funny name. Dick Lurk. But the redhead's pronunciation, that had been the problem. Jissis, he should have made the connection. Rachel's father calling him Ghree-zil, only the Afrikaners could say their own names. And one Zulu. Mbali Kaleni. She had phoned him while he was sitting in that office with the Commissioner. This is Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny. Zulu accent, but her pronunciation was flawless. We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number. It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk.

Dicklurk was de Klerk. J. M. de Klerk. Jason de Klerk. One of the guides.

'The tour company,' he said to the girl. 'Which tour company were the girls with?'

'Tour company?' she asked, intimidated by Griessel's fervour.

'You know, the people who took them through Africa.'

'Oh.' For a second there was a frown, then her face brightened: 'African Overland Adventures. That's where he works, the

black guy, that's where I've seen him, they do all their Cape accommodation bookings with us, I sometimes go to see their—' 'Where are they?'

'Just one block down. My God, that's where—' 'Show me,' said Griessel and ran to the door. She came after him, stopped on the pavement, pointed to the right, across the street. 'On the corner.'

'Come, kerels,' said Benny Griessel to the uniforms as another insight lit up his head. A.O.A. African Overland Adventures. On the spur of the moment he kissed the plump girl on the cheek before he ran off.

She watched him speechlessly.

Chapter 42

Fransman Dekker took a bite of the toasted chicken mayonnaise sandwich in his left hand while he scribbled in his notebook with his right.

Alexa Barnard. That attitude this morning.

Inside knowledge.

A woman hiding in her house all day long. Alone. Lonely. Drinking. Lots of time to think about her husband, her life, her lot. A husband who was chronically unfaithful, a man who couldn't keep his hands off anything in a skirt. A man making big bucks while his wife rotted away at home.